Berkley Street Series Books 1 - 9: Haunted House and Ghost Stories Collection

by Ron Ripley

  “No,” Shane said.

  Vivienne grinned, and someone in the house screamed.

  Not a playful scream, but one full of terror.

  “You’ll leave soon enough, Shane,” she whispered and slipped back beneath her water.

  He turned and sprinted for the house. In a moment, he was inside of the kitchen, and there was a man on the floor. Blood exploded out of his mouth as he vomited repeatedly and others were gathered around the man. They tried to help him as Shane’s mother spoke frantically on the phone with someone.

  “What happened?” Shane asked the person nearest to him, a woman he vaguely remembered having been introduced to.

  “We don’t know,” she said in a shaky voice. “He was fine one minute, getting a beer out of the fridge, and then he just screamed and clutched his stomach. He’s been throwing up blood.”

  The man collapsed onto his side, and someone caught him. The man looked at Shane, and his eyes went wide with fear.

  “You!” the man gasped, and threw up again.

  Shane staggered back as the man’s bloody bile struck him in the face. The woman steadied him, and the man screamed again.

  Shane watched the light flee from the man’s eyes, and the Anderson House claimed another life.

  Chapter 52: Going In

  “Do we knock?” Marie asked, and Shane laughed in spite of the fear in the air.

  Herman chuckled, the sound rife with anxiety, and said, “Yes. Shane, will you?”

  Shane stepped forward, raised up his fist and knocked loudly several times.

  No one answered.

  He reached out, grabbed the doorknob and twisted. With a grunt, he pushed the door open.

  A bright light burst out of the room, and Shane turned away. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes and finally was able to look in.

  Dolls were piled haphazardly all over the furniture in the room. The bed and a rocker, a dresser and a side chair. Each of them was buried beneath dolls. Some of the dolls were ancient, nothing more than old cornhusk toys in rag clothing. Others were new as if taken fresh from a toy store shelf.

  The room smelled sweetly of lilacs, and Shane remembered how much his mother hated the smell.

  He took a few more steps into the room and Herman and Marie followed him. The detective walked to the left, the pistol still in her hand as she examined the dolls and the furniture.

  “It has been a very long time,” Herman said.

  Shane looked at the man.

  Herman smiled nervously. “A very long time since I was in this room. She has added to her collection.”

  “Why all the dolls?” Marie asked, finishing her circuit of the room.

  “Trophies,” Herman replied. “Mementos of those she has killed.”

  “Shane!”

  Shane, Herman and Marie turned to the door.

  Carl, flanked by Eloise and Thaddeus, stood in the doorway, just inside the hall.

  “You must leave,” Carl said, a note of desperation in his voice. “She’s coming. She’s coming! She heard you in the forest. She knows you are here. You must flee, my friend!”

  Shane looked at Herman and Marie. “She’s coming.”

  “What can we do?” Marie asked.

  “Try to find my parents,” Shane said, his voice suddenly raw. “Help me find my parents.”

  “We will,” Herman said, nodding.

  Shane turned to the dead. “Thank you, my friend, but I must know where my parents are.”

  Carl looked at Shane for a moment and then he said, “We will hold her off for as long as we can.”

  The door slammed closed.

  Shane looked around the room.

  “Herman,” he said, “is there anywhere she might hide someone here?”

  “The wardrobe,” Herman said, gesturing towards a corner with his bent and crooked fingers.

  “Wardrobe,” Shane started to say, and then he stopped himself.

  What he had assumed was molding for a window was in actuality the frame of a wardrobe built into the wall. Dolls were piled in front of it, and Marie stepped towards it. She put her weapon away and pulled down the dolls. Without a word she threw them onto the bed and Shane and Herman stayed out of her way.

  Screams ripped through the room’s closed door, and Shane jerked around.

  The harsh sounds of a fight, vicious howls, and voices raised in anger, pushed their way through the wood.

  A look back showed Marie as she cleared the last of the dolls.

  The wardrobe’s wide door opened of its own accord, and the noxious smell of old death bled into the room.

  “Oh Jesus,” Marie said, taking a stumbling step back.

  “Shane,” Herman said, reaching out a hand to steady him.

  Shane shook his head as he stepped forward. The noise of the fight in the hall vanished, replaced by the thunderous beat of his own heart.

  For all intents and purposes, the wardrobe’s interior looked much as it should though it was barren of clothes. Shane’s mother and father, however, hung from meat hooks set in the back of the piece of furniture.

  They were dressed in their pajamas, their bodies thin husks, mummified. Between them stood a small marble plant stand. Upon the pale stone was a black house phone, similar to the one in the library.

  The one through which he had spoken to his mother. If it had been her and not Vivienne.

  “Shane,” Marie said, “Shane we have to leave.”

  The words slowly pierced his sorrow. His rage grew, however, as he looked up at the bodies. Silence filled the hallway, and suddenly the door blew off the hinges.

  Chapter 53: Vivienne Returns to Her Room

  Shane turned slowly and faced the door.

  Once more, he heard nothing except his heart. Vaguely he saw Marie rush past him and drop to the floor. Herman lay on his back, part of the door upon his small chest. Blood spilled from several cuts on his face.

  He’s hurt, Shane realized dully. Yet he could only remain focused on the doorway.

  Focused on Vivienne.

  She stood and grinned at him. Her long blonde hair was in a pair of ponytails, each tied with a bright blue ribbon. The blue matched her eyes.

  She wore a white dress, the hem of which reached the floor while the sleeves ended at her wrists. On her hands, she wore a pair of brilliantly white gloves.

  “Hello Shane,” she said, stepping into the room.

  “Vivienne,” he said, his voice harsh.

  She smiled. “You’re upset?”

  “Quite.”

  “Your parents?” she asked, feigning innocence.

  “Yes.”

  She looked past him and into the wardrobe. “You know, they look remarkably well for being so dead.”

  From the corner of his eye, Shane saw Marie pull Herman farther from the doorway.

  “They do,” Shane agreed. “I was curious, though.”

  “Oh,” Vivienne said, smiling sweetly, “about what?”

  “Does your body look as well preserved?” he asked.

  The smile vanished from her face. “Mine will look better than yours when I am finished with you, Shane Ryan.”

  “I doubt it,” Shane replied.

  Her nostrils flared as she took a step closer.

  “I’m going to flay you alive,” she whispered. “I’ve hated you for so long, Shane. Ever since you came here. Ever since you first slept in your room. I pushed them all to you, and yet you won them over. How?”

  “I was never a spoiled brat,” Shane answered. Her face went red, and he smiled. “Oh, you don’t like names, do you?”

  “I’ll teach you,” she spat. “I will teach you!”

  Shane stood his ground as she lunged forward. She thrust her hands into his stomach and squeezed.

  Nothing happened.

  She looked up at him in surprise, a surprise which he was sure his own face mimicked.

  “No!” She shrieked angrily. “No!”

  She withdrew her hands, shoved them
in again, and still nothing happened.

  “The house is yours,” a voice said in Italian. “The dead have fought for you, and thus have made it yours.”

  Roberto’s violin began to play in the distance. A victorious march.

  Shane reached out and put his hand on Vivienne’s shoulder.

  It was solid beneath his hand.

  And everything about Vivienne flashed before him.

  The wretched, vile girl; he saw her torture the hens and gut the cow. He watched her poison the serving girl and smother her infant brother. A burning image of her preparing to set the house on fire, the gleeful grin upon her face as she held up a flaming brand.

  Her father, a great, tall, somber man. Miserable at what he had wrought with his own loins.

  Shane saw her father come into the room and rip the torch from her small hand. Vivienne screamed at him in rage as her mother cowered in a corner, with a giant leather bound bible held up before her.

  Vivienne laughed even as her father grabbed her by her shoulders, looked at her with a terrible inner pain, and picked her up.

  The laughter and joy in her face vanished as he walked with fierce, stiff steps towards the pond.

  Suddenly, she realized what he intended to do, and fought him. Great tufts of hair were ripped from his head. Blood sprang forth from a dozen cuts made by her nails. She sank her teeth into his back, yet he remained resolute.

  He walked steadily down the bank, through the reeds and into the water. He tore her from his shoulders and thrust her into the pond.

  The man wept as he drowned his daughter. Her white dress grew heavy and pulled her down as she thrashed. Fish scattered through the water, her eyes full of fear and rage as Vivienne tried to free herself. Her blonde hair slipped free of the ribbons to float like a halo about her pale face.

  Shane shuddered and shook his head. He looked down at the beastly child in his hands.

  Vivienne’s mouth went slack with shock.

  He tightened his grip, and she screamed.

  Foul, dirty pond water burst from her lips and drenched his clothes.

  “Marie,” Shane said, looking over at the detective. “Get Herman to your uncle’s.”

  Without a word she picked the small, old man up easily and hurried out of the room with him.

  Vivienne tried to wrench herself free of Shane’s grip, but she failed. She looked up into his face, and the wickedness which had filled her blue eyes vanished, replaced by terror.

  “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” he whispered.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, trying to pull away again. “Let me go!”

  Shane grabbed her other shoulder and squeezed. A sense of grim satisfaction slipped over him as she screamed. Her knees went weak, and only his tight grip kept her upright.

  “Your parents are still here,” she gasped. “Still here. Did you know?”

  Shane kept the same amount of pressure on her, but he said, “I did not know, Vivienne. Why do you mention it?”

  “Because I can free them, yes, yes I can. I can free them. They cannot leave the house, but they won’t be trapped here. Not with me. I will let them go, if you will do the same,” she said desperately, a whining tone in her voice.

  “Will you?” Shane asked softly.

  “Yes,” she said, “just let me go, and I will free them.”

  Shane let go of one shoulder. “Free them first, Vivienne, and you shall follow.”

  “No,” she said, grinning viciously. She screamed in pain as he tightened his grip with the other hand.

  “Yes!” She shrieked. “Yes, fine!”

  “Where are they?” Shane asked.

  “In the bed tables drawer,” she said. “Bring me there.”

  With his grip firmly on her shoulder, he half pushed, half dragged the dead girl over to the bed-table.

  “Open it,” he snapped.

  Vivienne flinched, but she opened it as ordered.

  A long, low moan escaped the drawer and something cold brushed past him.

  He heard his parents weep as they fled the room.

  “Freed,” Vivienne said triumphantly. “Freed. And now for me, Shane Ryan.”

  “And what will you do? Where will you go?” he asked lightly.

  She frowned, confused. “Why back to my pond, of course. I will keep my pond as I always have.”

  “So I thought,” Shane whispered.

  He looked at her for a long moment, until she finally demanded, “Let me go!”

  Shane smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  “You promised!” she screamed.

  “No,” Shane said, clenching his free hand into a fist and raising it above his head, “I never did.”

  He suddenly felt the power of the house, of all the bound dead flow through him. A deep, powerful energy surging inside of him. Beneath his hands, Vivienne was solid; a real form. An entity which could suffer and die; one which could be forced out of a world and into the next.

  The power of the house, the energy of the dead who were loyal to him. All of it gave him a strength which no one, living or dead, could stand against.

  As the spirits and the house surged inside of him, Shane discovered he could beat a ghost into oblivion.

  Chapter 54: Two Weeks Later

  “I spoke to Bernadette this morning,” Marie said, taking a drink of her coffee.

  “Herman is alright?” Shane asked, washing the last of the lunch dishes.

  “Yes,” she said. “The hospital will be releasing him in a few days. Uncle Gerry is still upset.”

  “About the whole ‘adventure’?” Shane said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  “Of course,” she said with a sigh.

  “It’s the Marine in him,” he said, putting the last plate into the drying rack. He wiped his hands on the hand towel, hung it up to dry and went to the table.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Partly in shock, I suppose.”

  “Have you had any luck getting back to her room, to recover your parents’ bodies?”

  “No,” Shane said, rubbing the back of his head. “I haven’t even been able to get to Roberto’s room. No word from Carl, or Thaddeus or Eloise. Even the dark ones have been silent. I’m more afraid of the house now than I was when they were all raising a ruckus.”

  “Still drinking?” Marie asked.

  “Yes,” Shane answered. “The house may be quiet, Marie, but it doesn’t mean my nightmares have gone away.”

  “Well, I’ll say it again,” she said as she stood up. “I’d be happy to sponsor you if you want to start the program, Shane.”

  “Thanks,” Shane said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Listen, give me a call tomorrow. Maybe we can get coffee at some place other than your house or my uncle’s,” she said, grinning.

  “Sounds good, Detective.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll see myself out, Shane. Have a good day.”

  “You too, Marie,” he said. He watched her leave the kitchen, waited for the front door to open and close, and then he walked to the pantry. Quickly he opened the door, lifted up the trap and descended into the root cellar.

  He stood on the dirt floor and waited. Within a moment, the room darkened, and a voice said, “What do you want?”

  “Answers,” Shane snapped. His anger flared, and he fought back the urge to swear at the dark one.

  “What answers do you think we have?” the dark one asked sulkily.

  “Whatever ones I want,” Shane answered angrily. “Have you found Carl and the others?”

  “No.”

  “What of the old man?” Shane demanded.

  “One of my brothers saw him in your parents’ bathroom. And,” the dark one hesitated.

  “And what?” Shane asked.

  “We saw your parents,” it answered.

  “Where?” Shane said excitedly.

  “The library.”

  Shane turned around quickly and nearly sla
mmed his head into the ladder. Hand over hand he quickly climbed up, flipped the trapdoor back into place and ran out the pantry. He took the stairs two at a time, grabbed hold of the banister and turned sharply towards the library.

  The door, which he had closed earlier, was open.

  The lights were on.

  A fire burned in the hearth.

  He stumbled over his own feet and nearly fell as he went into the room, and when he caught himself, he saw them.

  Both his mother and his father.

  Hank and Fiona Ryan.

  Dead, but still they were there.

  Each sat in a chair. Each held a book and a glass of wine.

  They looked worn and battered, far older than he remembered, yet he knew it was from their time in hell with Vivienne.

  His parents smiled at him.

  Shane dropped to his knees and began to weep.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Meeting the Andersons

  Carl sat patiently in the parlor of the Anderson house. His back was straight, his hands, palm down upon his thighs. It was always a comfort to slip into the habits the military had cultivated within him.

  A coal fire burned in a brazier set within the confines of the large hearth. Beautiful club chairs of dark brown tooled leather were artfully arranged in the room. Each chair had its own table and tall floor lamps with sepia glass shades that stood as silent sentries behind each seat.

  The large, dark wood door of the parlor opened with the faintest of whispers and the aged, respectful butler who had ushered him into the home stepped in.

  “Herr Hesselschwerdt,” the butler said, pronouncing Carl’s surname effortlessly, “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”

  Carl stood up quickly and held himself rigid as the powerful couple entered the room.

  They were in their late forties and impeccably dressed. Mr. Anderson could only be described as dashing, and his wife was stunning.

  Mrs. Anderson’s dark brown hair, streaked with single strands of silver, was piled elegantly on top of her head. Silver earrings graced her ears, and she was possibly the most beautiful woman Carl had ever had the pleasure of seeing in person. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hiccupped, and Carl forced himself to stay focused.